


A Long Dark

by livereats



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Cissamione, DeathEater!Hermione, Drama, Eventual Smut, F/F, Good!Draco, Harry Potter is Not the Boy-Who-Lived, Not Canon Compliant, Oneshot, Slow Burn, Violence, dark au, dystopian au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-02 02:02:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15786672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livereats/pseuds/livereats
Summary: The Order dies in 1998 with Harry Potter. Years later, Narcissa Malfoy and deatheater Hermione Granger band together to finish what Harry started.





	1. A Hole in the Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione becomes a death eater in 1999.

1999.

A muggle man and a muggle woman were lying in the dirt. Their brown bodies lay awkwardly upon themselves, like ragdolls. The woman was lean. Her hands rested above her shoulders, her fingers tangled in wooly hair. Her eyes were closed. On her belly, her husband lay staring at the evening sky. His guts were ribboned into her own. He was dead. So was she.

They were only muggles. Narcissa had been telling this to herself all evening. Yet she pitied them.

The muggle couple’s house stood by itself at the end of a long paved road. It was surrounded on both sides by aspens. Summer vegetables crammed the large, well-loved garden. The house’s exterior was oddly tidy, painted off-white and deep oranges. Morning glories crept up a low brick wall. The lights in the doorway were warm and dim, illuminating the figure of Bellatrix Lestrange.

Bella’s laughter was shrill and tireless. Everything was so funny to her. When they were young, Narcissa had thought that this was a good quality in a person. Bella’s soul was invulnerable, stubborn to the last. Until the First War, Narcissa had loved her sister’s laughter, which came in soft, bright trembles. It was contagious to her, until the First War, when Narcissa discovered that Bella’s sense of humor had twisted, and that there were other ways of destroying someone’s soul.

Bella came first from the house. She always came first, in things. She stepped from the house with long strides, her tongue drawing on her lip. Her face was joyous but deliberating.

“Come, mudblood,” she sang to a person Narcissa could not see.

Hermione Granger followed. Her face was ashen, and void of any discernible feelings. Her hair was a storm, strands matted to her forehead, blood on her lip the color of hibiscus. Her eyes were the worst. Deadened, somehow. In the darkness, Narcissa could not make out their color. “It’s not polite to stare,” said Hermione.

Narcissa dropped her gaze. In Hermione’s fingers, the mudblood gripped a wand of vinewood.

“You look surprised,” snickered Bella. “Wondering if she really did it? I taught her. Of course she did.”

“The Dark Lord will be pleased,” said Hermione without any conviction. She moved to pocket her wand and leave, but Bella tore down the steps to stop her. A tooth was recently missing from her yarrow smile.

“You’re not done yet, mudblood,” she said, gripping Hermione’s shoulder. “Prove yourself, once more.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“My. You’re like an obedient dog,” Bella crooned. “I like that. Listen here,” she said. “I want you to burn this.” She put her chin in the space beneath Hermione’s jaw. “You can do that, can’t you?”

“Bella,” said Narcissa. She could see now what Bella could not. “Bella, I don’t think—”

Hermione turned towards the house. “Aesmadaeva.”

Narcissa’s eyeballs were bathed, then, in such an intense heat that she shut them and bowed away. When she looked again, the muggle house had burst into flames. Licks of fire roared, stretching from the molten once-windows. The smell of burning paint and rubber filled Narcissa’s nose, followed by the stench of tar as the flames burst through the roof and turned it amber and gold.

Hermione stared. Her cheeks were wet.

Somewhere behind them, Bella howled.

“Let’s go,” said Narcissa at barely a whisper.

“I’m fine,” said Hermione. She looked away from the house. The fire was spreading now, turning the grass and the well-loved garden and the trees and the bodies black. Bella stepped towards the muggles in the grass and burned them.

“You don’t have to look,” said Narcissa. She touched Hermione’s shoulder.

“I said I’m fine.” Hermione jerked her shoulder away.

Their shadows were long and flickered as they left, carved out in the autumn ground by the soft glow of the house. When they apparated, Narcissa was plunged into the dark, her body forced into itself. She pictured the Manor, and when she had felt her body squeeze out of itself, opened her eyes. The stench of tar had gone. Now she smelled only dust.

Hermione and Bella stood in the center of the Malfoy Manor parlor. Hermione was breathing hard, and Bella held her up.

“Stand straight!” she admonished, eyes wide.

Narcissa saw why. A soft voice spoke from the top of the parlor stairwell. It said, “Welcome back, Ms Granger.” Voldemort descended. Narcissa did not look him in the face, but she watched his robes drag on the stairs, saw his bare, grey feet. There was something like dry mud on them. Narcissa could hear them—his footsteps—as they rasped the floors. His walk was slow. The old wood made not a sound beneath his weight.

“It’s an honor, my Lord,” said Bella. Her head dipped low. Hermione’s did not.

“Ms. Granger,” he said again. Something like warmth came from him, but Hermione knew better.

“My Lord,” she said.

He gave her what was an attempt at a smile. His teeth were perfectly square and perfectly white.

“Your arm,” he said.

She offered her left arm, which trembled slightly in the air. Voldemort took it with one hand, and with the other stuck his wand into her flesh.

“Well done,” he said.

Hermione screamed.


	2. Visitor

Narcissa Malfoy was well-acquianted with all varieties of loss and grief. She knew loss of dignity at the hands of her mother, her father, her sisters Bella and Andromeda. She knew the loss of freedom in marriage, which had felt nothing like loss at all as a young, pureblooded woman of a traditional family. She had lost two sisters, one to the love of mudbloods and the other to the insanity that was pure blood obsession. And finally, she had lost the last of her family: Her daughter-in-law, Astoria Greengrass, her son, and her son’s son. No loss, Narcissa felt, was greater than the loss of what could have been.

Astoria had succumbed to her disease early on. Even before she had grown ill, Narcissa had wondered after her health, discouraged Draco in pursuing her.

“She’s weak,” she’d warned him. “You’re taking on a great burden.”

“I know mother,” he said. He’d become poor at listening.

In the days after Astoria’s death, Draco lived as a ghost. But he played an attentive father. In the mornings he was awake, before Narcissa had even gotten out of the guest bed. She could hear him in the kitchen, milling about. Making breakfast. His flat with Astoria was small. Narcissa could hear everything. She’d listen to the water boil over, the pouring of the tea. His gentle weeping.

It hurt her something deep.

He said he slept alright, but Narcissa was certain it wasn’t true. The blemishes beneath his eyes grew darker. His movements were less graceful. Still, he continued to be father: He changed Scorpius’ clothes, washed him, took him out, made most of the meals. Narcissa didn’t understand it. She’d never learned to cook, and subsequently had never taught Draco how, either.

“Why don’t you hire elves?” she asked.

He smiled feebly. “I like this.”

He held Scorpius while he cooked. The toddler’s teeth were still half submerged, and so Draco took every one of his meals, ground them up, and fed them to his son.

“I can help you,” said Narcissa, feeling useless.

“It’s okay, mum.”

In the evenings, sometimes, he did let her help. Many nights Narcissa found him nearly passed out in the armchair.

“I’m tired,” he said.

“Let me,” said Narcissa. She pulled Scorpius into her arms, gently, and took him to his father’s bedroom. When he was asleep and Narcissa had returned, Draco was staring at a landscape painting.

“You need help,” said Narcissa. “Elves. Someone to talk to.”

“Mum.”

“You need to move on.”

“No.” He sounded agitated. When she squinted at him, he glared. “Okay.”  
“Hire someone.”

“I’ll hire someone.”

“Good.” She pecked his cheek.

“But you should go home.”

“What?”

“Go home tomorrow. I’ll get some help, I promise.”

Narcissa had little reason not to believe him. She packed up her things the next day.

“I’ll come check on you, next weekend.”

Draco made a face. “Better not. Father is coming.”

“Better not.” Narcissa laughed. “During the week, then?”

“The weekend after next would be better.”

“Are you tired of me?” asked Narcissa.

“Quite,” said Draco. He smiled.

“I love you,” said Narcissa.

“Okay mum.”

They hugged goodbye, and Narcissa did not see him again. She came the weekend after. Nobody answered the door. It made Narcissa anxious. She unlocked it with Draco’s password charm, and entered the flat. It was deserted. In her confusion, Narcissa stepped away and looked at the doors to the other flats. No, this was her son’s flat, and it was empty. She checked again. There was no indication to say that Draco, Astoria, or Scorpius had ever lived there. She ran.

From the townhouse in Wiltshire, she nearly emptied the floo powder asking after Lucius and their acquaintances in the Ministry.

“You don’t know where our son or grandson is?” said Lucius, a minute into their conversation.

“You’re unbelievable,” said Narcissa. “I’m asking if you’ve seen him!”

“No.”

“You visited him last week,” she said. “Him and Scorpius.” She could hear herself growing shrill with him.

“I haven’t seen him since last month, Narcissa.” He paused. She could feel his urge to say, ‘I haven’t seen him—thanks to you,’ but he held his tongue. Narcissa was still angry, for his hypothetical snark.

“He’s a grown man, you know,” said Lucius. He sighed a long and exasperated sigh. “Hello?”

She’d left him.

She kneeled alone on the panels before her fireplace. The flames went from green to grey. A last puff of ash caught, then went out, drifting up the chimney as if in disappointment. 

Narcissa woke up from a bad dream in early November. It was still dark outside. There was an aching in her temples that came crushing in from all sides. Blindedly, Narcissa rummaged the nightstand to her left, a relic of the manor she’d left behind. A bottle from the apothecary’s fell, but did not break. She finished it off, and with her deluminator turned on the lights, got out of bed, and dressed herself.

It was getting colder again. Narcissa put on long woolen socks and laced up her leather boots. She pulled on a tunic dress of emerald silk, then her robes, and did her face. With care Narcissa covered up the circles beneath her eyes. She gave color to her mouth and cheeks. In the kitchen, she put the kettle on and waited.

A knock at the door startled her a few minutes later. The clock above the stove read half past five.

The woman at the door had dark curly hair trimmed close to her scalp, and eyes like a breath of lichen. She wore a scarf in an earthy yellow. It complimented her skin, which was brown and immaculate. Her shirt was clean and white. She wore no robes. She was dressed like a muggle. It took Narcissa a moment, in the sliver of her window, to realize that it was Hermione Granger that was standing at her door.

“Hello,” said Hermione when she had been welcomed in.

Narcissa was rendered mute.

“How are you?” the muggleborn asked. She looked healthier than Narcissa remembered. If Narcissa had killed her own parents, she might have lost several years of sleep. The portrait of Druella Black she kept on a table in the entrance hallway sneered at her. But then again, maybe not.

Hermione pulled her scarf from her neck.

Narcissa remembered herself. “I’m alright,” she said. “And yourself?” The kettle was starting to cry. “Pardon me,” she said. “Please, come to the kitchen.”

“I’m sorry it’s so early,” said Hermione. “I was meaning to knock when you were up, but then I saw that the lights were on and—”

Narcissa stared at her, and then took the kettle off the stove. She set it down. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You were what?”

“No, I’m sorry. It’s just that it couldn’t wait.”

“You were waiting outside my house?” asked Narcissa incredulously. “At this hour?”

“I’ve heard from Draco,” Hermione blurted. “I thought you might want to know.”

Narcissa stopped pouring the hot water. Her arm bumped the mug, and hot water spilled onto the counter and onto the floor.

“Shit!”

Hermione didn’t flinch.

“Where?” asked Narcissa. “Where did you see him?”

“He came to my home yesterday,” said Hermione. “I moved under the Emporium.”

“What did he say?”

Hermione was quiet. She looked hard at Narcissa.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she spat. “I am his mother, he’s been gone for years, spit it out! What did he say?”

Hermione’s eyes darkened. “He said that he loves you, that he’s doing fine.”

“Don’t lie.”

Hermione insisted. “That’s what he said.”

He had not come to her. He had not come to his mother. Narcissa sat down, vision bleary. “Is he?”

“Is he what?”

“‘Doing fine’?”

Hermione picked up the mug and filled it again with tea leaves and hot water. “That’s what I came here for,” said Hermione. Her voice was even. She placed the mug before Narcissa and touched her hand briefly. “Astoria left quite an impact on Draco, didn’t she?”

Narcissa put her fingers around the mug. The steam rose, warming her nose. “Yes,” she whispered.

“He didn’t tell me, but her sickness... it was from that muggleborn epidemic a couple years ago, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” Narcissa remembered something she had no desire to remember. She remembered the phlegm.

“That disease was magical. It was meant to wipe out muggleborns,” said Hermione. “It didn’t work.”

Narcissa sneered at her. “Obviously.”

“I think Draco has betrayed the Dark Lord.”

Silence.

The hairs on the back of Narcissa’s neck raised. “And so the Dark Lord sent you.”

Hermione laughed mirthlessly. “No,” she said. She reached into her pocket and produced a large envelope. “I’m here because we have the same interests at heart.”

Narcissa opened the envelope and withdrew a piece yellowed paper. “What’s this?”

“I found it in Draco’s files at the Ministry. It wasn’t easy to get to. He drew it up himself, I think. It’s a draft for a portkey.”

“A portkey? But this is—”

“Complicated?” offered Hermione. “It doesn’t designate specific users, but will allow only those who are ‘proposita et habent bona voluntates’—purposeful and have good intentions. The draft says it’s in Moscow.”

Narcissa looked up from the draft. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Your son is hunting a horcrux, Narcissa.”

“You want to help him.” 

“Yes,” said Hermione. “Would you come with me?”

“Why do you trust me with this? I could tell anyone, you know. You could be killed.”

“You helped Harry, once.”

“No. I didn’t.”

“I know what you did.” Hermione’s eyes bored into her. “I know what you did for your son, and for Harry.”

“Harry Potter died.”

“He died,” Hermione agreed.

They sat at the table in the kitchen until the sky turned pink and orange. Narcissa cleaned up the water on the kitchen floor with a wave of her wand and made Hermione her own mug of tea.

“I’ll come with you,” said Narcissa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I failed second year Latin. If anyone would like to correct mine, feel free! If you enjoyed this chapter, please let me know what you think! No beta for this, so as usual all mistakes are mine. (If you would like to beta read, please contact me over Ao3 or on my Tumblr account - livereats.)


	3. Moskva

It fell to Hermione to take them to the Emporium. Narcissa hadn’t been in ages and couldn’t conjure the image to apparate on her own. So they apparated together, with only the slightest pop some streets down from the large Emporium building. Narcissa let go of Hermione and put on her hood. Her nose wrinkled.

“That bad, huh?” said Hermione. “Maybe they should make mudblood deodorant. For your sake.”

“No, it’s not that,” said Narcissa. Her voice was clear and cold as always, and then annoyed. “It’s that.”

Hermione sniffed. A warm gust that tasted like sweet grilled meat floated down the alleyway.

“Meat?” she asked. “What, do you not eat meat?”

Narcissa didn’t deign to answer. Fine then, thought Hermione.

And then she smelled it. The air was off. Burnt and coppery, with the slightest tinge of musk and something like sulfur. It wasn’t sulfur, Hermione knew, and so did Narcissa she could wager. It was burnt keratin, the stuff of hair. Not the kind of smell Hermione could even hope to forget. It lingered in the nostrils for a long time, and in the mind afterwards. Hermione covered her nose. It didn’t help.

She passed quickly down the alley, and beneath a small stone bridge. Narcissa followed, her footsteps in the water, in the mud. They passed a man standing alone with a pipe in his hand. Smoke rose from his mouth and up over the bridge. The sky was darker than usual. Hermione kept her gaze low. A woman ran up to the man, and neither the man nor the woman paid Hermione any attention.

“Whatsit?” said the man.

“Some witches burned themselves up in front of the bank,” said the woman. She trailed off. “They done it while Pius Thicknesse was in.”

Hermione hurried along. The path curved downwards and turned into a stairwell that went beneath Diagon Alley. The stairs turned into a long, cobblestone passage lit with naked, flickering lightbulbs. Doors lined the edges. Each door had a number. Some said ‘STORAGE’ on them. They were now beneath the Emporium. They stopped before Hermione’s door, which had nothing on it. Hermione dug into her pockets and fished out a brass key shaped like an otter.

“Just a moment,” said Narcissa. She pressed on the door ever so slightly. It moved by a hint, and she scowled. “Do you make a habit of leaving your door unlocked?”

Hermione withdrew her wand. With her other hand, she nudged Narcissa towards the wall.

“I wouldn’t show your face, if I were you,” she whispered. If someone had already come to her home and rummaged it, they’d likely do the same to Narcissa’s. Before Narcissa could protest, Hermione opened the door. The hinges creaked. She checked behind the door. There was no one there. She pressed close to the edge of the hallway. There wasn’t a sound in the flat until—

“You needn’t bother yourself,” came the voice of Fenrir Greyback. “I can hear you there, Miss Granger.”

“Fenrir,” said Hermione. She lowered her wand, stepping into her living room. Fenrir stood in the far right corner by an enchanted window that looked out at nothing. In his mangled hand was a figurine. In the far left, there was another man whom Hermione couldn’t recognize, although she was sure she’d seen him before. His canines were sharp when he grinned at her, and he smelled of carrion.

“Didn’t anyone tell you that it’s bad manners to trespass?” snapped Hermione.

“‘Didn’t anyone tell you that it’s bad manners to trespass?’” Fenrir mimicked in a high pitched voice. He chucked and turned the figurine over in his hands. It was a small clay animal Hermione’s mother had gotten for her in her fourth year of elementary, the same year her magical inclinations had become too pronounced for her parents to ignore.

“Put that down,” said Hermione.

“Are you fond of it?” asked Fenrir.

“Yes,” said Hermione. “And if you don’t put it down, I’ll have you put down.”

The werewolf chortled. “I’m not afraid of you, Granger.” He stuck the figurine into his pocket. “I heard you’ve been doing some shady activities,” said the werewolf-cum-cannibal. His eyes were as large, black beads. “I heard you betrayed the Dark Lord and ran off to be with that pansy Malfoy. The Dark Lord had so many hopes for Malfoy. Had so many hopes for you. I told him you couldn’t be trusted.”

“You shouldn’t be listening to rumors,” said Hermione. “The Dark Lord sent me to bring Draco back. That’s what I’m doing.”

“Reckon he’ll let me have you this time?” Fenrir said, stepping towards her. He combed his fingers across his balding scalp and into the mullet that greased down the back of his hairy neck. “Pureblood, muggle, mudbloods.... Little girls all taste the same to me.”

“Come another step, I dare you.”

“Didn’t ye hear me? I’m not afraid of you. You haven’t even raised your wand.”

“I’m only a girl, like you said,” said Hermione. “But I don’t think you’d fare so well on Bellatrix Lestrange’s bad side.” Hermione certainly hadn’t.

“Bellatrix Lestrange.” He said her name as if for the first time.

“She’d be upset if you hurt me,” said Hermione.

Something shifted in Fenrir’s eyes.

“She’ll know what you did to me. She’ll know it was you,” said Hermione. She stepped forward. “And she’ll kill you dead.”

“Like hell,” he growled.

“The backdoor’s that way.” She pointed her wand down another little hall. The door at the end of it clicked open.

“You smell different,” said Fenrir.

“Safe trip.”

“You’ve got someone on you.”

“How astute of you,” said Hermione. “It’s Madam Lestrange’s.”

Fenrir cowed.

“Goodbye,” said Hermione.

Fenrir and his companion fled. Hermione locked the backdoor behind them, and pocketed her wand.

Narcissa appeared in the doorway. Her features were unreadable. Hermione hurried to shut the front door. “They smelled you,” said Hermione, “but they thought it was Bella. We’ve got to hurry.”

“Be quick, then,” said Narcissa.

“That’s the thing,” said Hermione. She glanced at Narcissa and tried to be unoffending. “You can’t wear that.”

“Pardon me?”

“We can’t go by floo,” said Hermione. “If we’re going to Moscow we can’t anyway. They’re watching the floo networks. The deatheaters are watching them, I mean, and the Ministry. And we can’t apparate because I’ve never been there. Have you?”

Narcissa rolled her eyes. “No.”

“Right. Because it’s a muggle city.” She gave Narcissa a sideways glance. “Which means muggle clothes.”

Narcissa suddenly became much taller. “Absolutely not.”

“Just... see,” said Hermione. “I have something you might like.” She had many somethings. They’d belonged to her great aunt, though Hermione wouldn’t be telling Narcissa that. She saved them only for the most formal of occasions. “Lose the robes for a moment.”

Narcissa pursed her lips.

“Please?”

Narcissa sighed. She shrugged out of her robe, and laid it over the settee. Hermione extracted a coat from the closet. Its color was mink fur, exceptionally elegant, and Hermione almost never wore it. When she did, she felt like an idiot.

On Narcissa, it was made.

“It’s warm,” said Narcissa. She sounded pleased.

Hermione scampered into the bedroom, leaving Narcissa alone. Over time, Hermione had turned the once lonely flat into her home. Her scent had settled into the walls and her sheets, indescribable. Mostly it smelled like rosemary, and some smell far more comforting, though Hermione wasn’t sure why. And she’d be leaving it behind. Her heart gnawed at itself. On her made bed, Hermione snatched up her backpack. She’d been prepared since the beginning, and especially vigilant since joining the deatheaters, aware that her loyalties would forever be in question. The backpack had everything.

She hung it over her shoulder, and nearly tripped on the cat on her way out.

“Crookshanks!” she cried. He yowled as she picked him up and carried him out on her shoulder.

Narcissa startled. “That’s not coming with us, is it?”

“Of course he is,” said Hermione in such a way that dared Narcissa to argue.

Narcissa didn’t argue. Hermione was impressed.

“Ready?” she asked.

Narcissa nodded.

Hermione offered her hand for apparition. “I have a friend who can help us.”

Narcissa took it tentatively, and as their bodies warped into nothingness, her grip turned lethal. They popped into a cluster of trees. Hermione landed unsteadily on her feet. Crookshanks slipped her grasp and hissed as he hit the forest floor.

“Huh,” thought Hermione, who had grown up reading that cats always landed on all fours.

“I really hate that,” said Narcissa.

“Apparate much?”

“Not anymore.”

“Ah,” said Hermione. She didn’t wonder why. “It’s uh, it’s this way.”

The path they followed was gravel, with tire tracks. The spruces along each side became silver birches, and the gravel broke into a grassy clearing. On the other side, in the late morning light, was a dark-wooded house. The air was cool and gentle. As they got closer, Hermione remembered the carvings of brambles, blackberries, animals, and flowers that had been embedded in every ceiling, pillars, door, windowsill, and piece of furniture in the house. She hiked up the steps and knocked the door. It held a crest: A double-headed eagle, and the skull of a stag.

“Durmstrang,” said Narcissa, who was standing at the bottom of the steps.

“Yeah,” said Hermione.

Hermione could see that Narcissa was puzzled, either from why they had come to seek help from the house of someone affiliated with Durmstrang, or why Hermione had friends from Durmstrang, a school of the Dark Arts, in the first place. Whatever her thoughts were, she did not share them.

“Draco nearly went to Durmstrang,” said Hermione.

“Yes,” said Narcissa.

Hermione knocked again. “Why didn’t he?”

“Lucius wanted him to go, for obvious reasons.” Durmstrang didn’t admit muggleborns.

“And you? Did you want him to go?”

“No. I didn’t want him to go.” After a moment, she was distracted and nodded towards the door. “Someone’s trying to get your attention.”

Hermione turned around. In the window above the door, Viktor Krum was waving down at her. “Be right there,” he mouthed through the glass.

A moment later, he burst through the front door. Little had changed about him. His body was lean, and if possible, he had grown a bit taller. His sallow face lit up.

“Hello Hermione,” he said, accent slight and arms outstretched.

“Don’t you mean Hermy-own-ninny?” she asked. They stared at each other, and burst out laughing. There was a hug.

Viktor’s smile was kind. He looked down the steps over Hermione’s head.

“Malfoy,” he said. The crinkles in his eyes ceased.

“This is Narcissa Malfoy,” said Hermione.

“Yes I remember.”

“She’s helping me.”

“Helping you?” He looked skeptical.

“Yeah.”

Viktor shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “We get your car.”

There was a garage behind the house that Hermione had not recalled since her last visit, some months ago. She had been coming and going between Diagon Alley and Viktor’s home outside Tallinn, where he had relocated after an especially disturbing attack in Velingrad. His disposition towards Hermione’s new status as a deatheater was neutral, however, and unassuming. Many of his friends at Durmstrang had joined the anti-mudblood movement. He even knew some muggleborns from other schools, similar to Hermione, who’d joined out of survival.

“You vouldn’t have done something like that,” he said to Hermione after the attack in Velingrad. Moving as a wizard or a witch, she found, was much easier than she’d first imagined. Together, they placed seals and spells around Viktor’s home. It shrunk down to the size of a matchbox, and Viktor stuck his house in his pocket. After Velingrad, many witches and wizards in Bulgaria had had similar ideas about moving. There’d been so many bodies. He recounted them, the people, how they’d been strung up like laundry on a clothesline. “It’s not like any kind of magic I have seen,” said Viktor. “My friends, I’m sure they veren’t a part of it.” The reassurance was more for himself, Hermione felt.

“The garage is new,” said Viktor as they made their way past a large, aging gate. Narcissa was holding Crookshanks now. He seemed fine with the arrangement. “I made it with my father,” Viktor went on. The garage’s darkwood was just as decorated as any other part of the house. “The car is okay. It’s old, but I give it to you. Return it when you can—I have another.”

“Thank you.”

“I vish you vould stay,” he said. Hermione listened to the silver birch leaves, which fluttered like paper. She wished she could stay, too.

“We can’t,” said Narcissa.

“I’ll come visit soon,” said Hermione.

“How is Ron?”

“He’s okay.” She hadn’t seen him. She’d heard only words, here and there. “I think.”

“That is good,” said Viktor. He handed Hermione the keys. A stag charm which moved hung off the end of it. “This car shrinks, by the way,” he said, nodding at her bag. “You can put it in there.” He opened the door to the garage. Housed beneath its decorated wooden roof, was what could have, at best, been considered a jalopy.

“It’s magic, don’t worry,” said Viktor. He grinned. “Good luck.”

It was magic, Hermione discovered for herself as they left Viktor’s house. Magic was the only explanation for its operation. Magic held it together, and only just.

“I don’t feel good,” said Narcissa at some point after they’d passed the woods.

“It’s motion sickness. You have to look far away in the distance. That always helps.”

“How do muggles survive?” asked Narcissa, a shade greener.

Hermione didn’t answer.

They drove through Tallinn, the Old Town and the Main Square. Narcissa stared out the window, and watched the muggles. They didn’t talk. Hermione rolled down a window. Narcissa huddled into her coat. Her cheeks reddened against the cold air.

“He likes you,” said Narcissa.

“You think?”

“Don’t be thick.”

“We were dates at Yule Ball.”

“I know.”

“Draco told you?”

“Yes,” said Narcissa. Hermione saw her smile to herself. “We were worried he fancied you, because, well,” and she faltered.

“Because I’m a mudblood.”

“Well, no.”

“But that’s what you meant to say.”

“Muggleborn,” said Narcissa.

“Same sentiment,” said Hermione evenly. She turned the car into a parking lot.

“How much longer?” asked Narcissa.

“We just left,” said Hermione. “Twelve hours, give or take. Are you hungry?”

“No,” said Narcissa coldly.

“Okay, well I am.” She got out of the car and slammed the door. In about twenty minutes she had returned again with a bag of apples and pastries, among other small things. “Here,” she said, offering Narcissa an apple. It was green.

Narcissa took it. “Thank you,” she said stiffly.

Hermione fed Crookshanks yogurt and a croissant. The cat retreated to the back seat.

Narcissa took another apple and put it in her bag. They scattered their apple cores by the stick shift as they ate them. Or Narcissa did. Hermione ate her cores, too. And while she drove, Narcissa observed the world around them—the sometimes-quiet, sometimes-active streets, the cars, the bicycles, the shops and monuments, the parks, and the people. But especially the people. Hermione stopped for coffee twice.

“Do you want to come with me?” she asked the second time around.

Narcissa nodded and stepped out.

The cafe they came into was toasty and smelled strongly of espresso. Its doors were open to the chill, and Hermione and Narcissa sat as far away from it as they could. They didn’t have to worry about keeping their faces down. Hermione asked for two espressos in English, and the barista behind the counter was kind and understanding about it.

They sat down.

Narcissa spoke first. She spoke low.

“You never betrayed the Order, did you.” It wasn’t a question.

“No,” answered Hermione, though she wasn’t really in the mood to talk.

“And those weren’t your parents that died, in that house.”

Hermione stared at her, hard. “What do you think?” She sipped the espresso. It was a punch to the face. She shook her head and bit her cheek. “Those weren’t anyone’s parents. They were doppelgängers.”

“Doppelgängers?”

“Minerva, um. Professor McGonagall created them. Transfigured them, I guess you would say.”

Narcissa’s eyes widened. “Minerva is alive?”

“Yeah,” said Hermione. “She doesn’t quit. Probably out there, somewhere, being useful to what’s left of the resistance. Does that answer your question?”

“Those doppelgängers were awfully realistic,” said Narcissa. The burning smell was the same. So were the sounds, and the feelings on their faces. They were practically human.

“I know.”

“I’m sorry,” said Narcissa suddenly.

Hermione didn’t know what for.

“For everything that happened to you.”

“It’s okay,” said Hermione. They were okay.

“For all the things that I did,” said Narcissa. Her eyes watered. Hermione wasn’t sure whether it was from remorse or exhaustion, or both. “I’m sorry for all the things that I let happen.”

“Hey,” said Hermione. She touched Narcissa’s hand. Held it. Her skin was soft. “It’s okay.”

They returned to the car after the espresso. Hermione was feeling jittery. She bit into another apple, and started up the car. They entered the country side where the terrain was flat and more barren. Narcissa stopped looking out the window. This, at least, was familiar to her.

“Hey, look at those,” said Hermione, spotting a flock of rams with impressive horns. It was dusk. Their heads picked up from grazing as the jalopy passed them by. “Look,” said Hermione again. But Narcissa’s breathing was shallow. Her cheek pressed into the collar of her coat.

She had fallen asleep.


	4. At the Registry

Narcissa awoke from a knock at the window. It was cold. She pushed her coat down her waist and was met by a pair of hazel eyes. She cracked open the car door.

“Morning,” said Hermione.

“Good morning,” Narcissa replied. There was an air of awkwardness and neither of them spoke.

Their car was parked on the side of an empty road. There was nothing around but trees and grass and breeze. Hermione handed her a cup with a spoon in it. It was hot and filled with buckwheat. Narcissa lifted the spoon to her lips. Tasted it.

“Honey,” she said.

Hermione nodded. Her curly brown hair was matted on one side. Her lips were chapped, and the skin beneath her eyes was turning purple.

“How do I look?” she asked when Narcissa had been staring too long.

“Awful, honestly,” said Narcissa.

Hermione smiled. “Thanks.”

“No, thank you.” And Narcissa meant it. Behind the open car door, Narcissa saw that there was a little fire licking away on a log. The log sat on dust, and besides the log sat an empty pot. Hermione took the pot and stuffed it in her bag, which swallowed it whole and became no larger. “We’re nearly there,” said Hermione, though she wasn’t looking up. She kicked dust into the fire, and when it had become more manageable, stomped out the last of the flames.

“You should rest,” said Narcissa.

“I had a nap.”

Hermione got in the car. She put a small dish of buckwheat on the backseat. A moment later, Crookshanks appeared, crawling out from beneath a seat.

“Where is the portkey exactly?” asked Narcissa. She watched Crookshanks sniff at the buckwheat. He seemed to decide against it and disappeared again.

“I don’t know,” said Hermione.

“That must be a first.”

She started the car. “It’s... special. It’s supposed to be visible only to people with good intentions.” They turned back onto the road.

“He visited you, didn’t he?” asked Narcissa.

“Yeah.”

“So he must have meant it for you.”

“Or you.”

“So where do we start?”

Hermione clicked open the glove compartment. “There should be a map in there, somewhere,” she said, “with all the magic community resources.”

Narcissa shuffled the compartment. She found it; a dog-eared, abused, and many-times-marked booklet that unfolded.

“There’s some kind of wizard registry,” said Hermione. “Visitors in the city are usually required to inform the authorities before an extended stay.”

“Why is that?”

“There are quotas,” said Hermione. “For how many muggleborns can be admitted.”

“I’d heard the magic population here was slim in the first place,” Narcissa remarked.

“True,” said Hermione. “Most of the magical communities are in the north, or further east.”

“Found it,” said Narcissa. She found a little red blotch on the map. “Moskva Magical Registry.”

“That’s it.”

They found Moscow in heavy smog and even heavier traffic. Narcissa became sick again, and tried to look for a faraway point, but there were none. The buildings crowded close and tall, with the occasional park. There was an elegant structure in crimson that Hermione described as a ‘Soviet-era metro station,’ whatever that meant. On many corners, there was a beggar, and on another a man in a bright beige suit. There were blocks and blocks of grey, as with any muggle city Narcissa had bothered to pass through, and then there were shocks of colors, domes, and mosaics.

They turned off onto a quieter street and Hermione brought the car to a stop by the curb. They stepped out, Narcissa with a bag on her arm and Hermione with her backpack slung over one shoulder and Crookshanks tucked under the other.

Hermione glanced around. There was no one on the street to see them. The jalopy was tucked away in between two bigger cars. Hermione pulled out Viktor’s keys, and pressed a button. The car chirped, and folded in upon itself.

Lying in the street was a toy car. Narcissa picked it up—it was only a little larger than her hand—and gave it to Hermione. Into the bag it went.

Crookshanks protested weakly. Hermione scratched him behind the ears.

“I know,” she said to him.

They walked some blocks on a loud street. Gone was the perfume of birch or spruce from the woods, or the aroma of apple cores being overpowered by a shut-in cat. Narcissa could hear the sound of a drill, emitting from a naked skyscraper. They passed wet cement. There was a stink, too, a stink that she had come to associate with muggles and their strange, roaring vehicles. The stink of Diesel. But then there was something sweet. Like currant.

A light rain began to fall, penetrating the smog with petrichor. They stopped soon after, dodging the sky to walk beneath outstretched roofs.

The Moskva Magic Registry was difficult to miss. It was difficult to miss in part because everyone was missing it, and in part because of its remarkable ugliness. Its door was granite, and above this granite door was an arch made up of intertwined spiders horrific in size. It all appeared as a glitch—against a wall that was also... granite.

“Oh,” said Hermione. “Ew.”

Narcissa had to agree. “It must be enchanted.” The muggles did not appear to notice the door or the very large stone spiders above it. She stared at the spiders, intertwined. “Are those acromantulas?”

“Jorogumo, I think,” said Hermione. “I read about them once at Hogwarts, when I wanted to be a magizoologist.”

“Are they dark?”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

Narcissa pushed the door into the Registry. The ceiling was lower than the outside facade might have indicated. The room behind the door was long, lit with bright lights that flickered and were unfriendly.

A single clerk was perched on a stool besides a water cooler. He had no desk, but stank of hot ink. There was a bookshelf behind him however, which he was deeply preoccupied with. There was a table, too, but it was so low it was likely meant for a goblin.

The clerk looked up. He wore muggle clothing, which would have been misleading but for his eyes. They were consumed with brown, and gaped like caves behind a pair of gold-leafed glasses.

“Hello,” he said, coming off the stool. He was tall and thin, and he spoke English with no accent. “I saw you coming,” he said, and he smirked.

Narcissa instantly hated him.

“You did?” asked Hermione.

The clerk touched his glasses. “Yes.” He pulled out a book that read on its fine red cover, ‘DIRECTORY’.

“We’re looking for a friend.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” he said. He flipped a page. His movements, and the singular expression that occupied his face, were cold and stern.

“Um,” said Hermione.

“Who are you looking for?”

“Malfoy,” said Narcissa. “His surname is Malfoy.”

“Good, and yours?”

“Malfoy,” said Narcissa.

“Yours,” said the clerk.

“My last name is also Malfoy.”

“Full name.”

Narcissa clenched her teeth. “Narcissa Black Malfoy.”

“Good.” The clerk scribbled it down in the directory. “And you?” He turned to Hermione.

“Hermione Jean Granger.”

The clerk looked up from the directory. He blinked.

“Ah,” he said. The sound hung in the air. He looked from Hermione, then to Narcissa again, and slowly put his pen down on the page. The caves that made up his eyes flickered. “From Hogwarts?” he asked.

“That one,” said Hermione. She lifted her chin.

His pen scratched Narcissa’s name from the directory. “How long will you be staying in Moskva?” he asked.

“A few days,” said Narcissa.

The clerk took a laminated sheet of paper and handed it to her. His voice dropped to a whisper. “This qualifies you for two weeks.”

“Thank you,” said Narcissa.

“And who are you looking—Malfoy, right.” He remembered. The pages of his directory turned on their own. They were yellow and thin. Most of them were blank. The clerk stuck a finger to a page and it stopped. He traced a line to the bottom. “Sorry,” he said softly. “There are no other Malfoys.”

“Try ‘Black’,” said Hermione.

The directory fluttered its pages again.

“Nothing,” said the clerk. He sounded nearly sympathetic.

“Can you arrange by the arrival date?” asked Narcissa.

“Yes, but—”

“Try between now and four years ago,” said Hermione.

This time, the directory didn’t flutter its pages. It made a little sound, like a whine. Then, it shredded itself into strips, which came together like parts of an interlocking puzzle. Within a few moments, Hermione and Narcissa found themselves with a collage of names arranged on a hundred pages or more laying in their hands.

“Well,” said the clerk.

Without hesitation, Hermione took the sheets and scattered them on the floor.

The clerk clicked his tongue.

“I’ll read the first and second year,” said Hermione, “and you can read the last two.”

“How can you be sure we’ll find him?” asked Narcissa. Hermione prodded a stack into her arms.

“He meant for us to find him,” said Hermione. “So we’ll find him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! I hope you continue to enjoy these chapters, and feed me criticism!
> 
> I am so delighted that Ao3 is not being blocked on this side of the pond! As I am now settled in, expect updates to continue as usual.
> 
> Another note—Because of the unexpected response I’ve gotten for ‘A Long Dark’, I am extending this now from 12 chapters to 20 (or more, depending on how I’m feeling).


	5. A Name

“Brutus Rosier,” Narcissa said aloud, and laughed.

Hermione looked up. “What?”

“Brutus, as in Brutus Malfoy,” said Narcissa, “who, thank Merlin, has been dead for... ages.”

“And Rosier? That’s your family, isn’t it?” Hermione was on her feet at once. She’d been counting names for ages, too, and was nearly mad from it.

“It’s my mother’s maiden name,” explained Narcissa, “Rosier.”

Hermione read the address next to it. “That’s not far from here, maybe a ten minute drive.” She turned to the clerk. “We found what we needed.”

The clerk smiled and waved his wand, which was a garish thing. The directory reassembled itself and piled onto his lap. “Then I wish you the best,” he said.

Narcissa held the piece of paper with the address on it as they drove. She pulled it flat and when Hermione glanced away once from the wheel she saw how Narcissa’s knuckles had gone white. Draco and Scorpio had been gone for years. No doubt Narcissa had dreamt up the worst scenarios. Murder by and under Pius’ ministry wasn’t an unusual thing. So many witches and wizards had been disappeared over the years. Usually, when the so-called “aurors” wished to make a point, they made a demonstration of it: The bodies reappeared here and there, arranged, sometimes meshed.

Until the Dark Lord had asked her to find Draco, Hermione had assumed that Draco had met a similar fate.

“Are you feeling excited?” asked Hermione.

“‘Excited’ might not be the right word for it,” said Narcissa. A puff of breath blotted her window. “I’m not certain I’m feeling anything.”

“Oh,” said Hermione.

“If you understand.”

“Maybe,” said Hermione. Not really.

Before long, they found themselves on a street where walled by townhouses. Hermione did not need to see the address.

“That’s the one,” she said. Draco couldn’t have possibly been more obvious. The house was painted a dark, muted green that looked nearly black against the others. The windows were tinted yellow with light.

“What an emo,” said Hermione to nobody.

“What?”

“Nothing. Come on.”

The knocker (of course there was a fancy knocker) was a brass snakehead.

“Go on,” said Hermione.

Narcissa knocked. The muscles beneath her jaw were clenched.

A muggle woman who must have been in her thirties answered the door. There was a child at her legs. His hair was pale and blonde as any Malfoy’s, but at the back it rose with a cowlick.

Narcissa stared at him. He stared back.

“Scorpio,” she said softly.

The boy’s eyes were blue like Narcissa’s, flowered like delphiniums. They were bright and afraid.

“Hello,” said the muggle woman. Her smile was the kind that glittered. “You are Narcissa?”

“Yes, I’m his mother,” said Narcissa, who was irritable again. “And who are you?”

“Anat,” said the muggle. “I watch Scorpio.” Her eyes were a dulled, light brown. They had a good nature to them. “And you must be Hermione.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Hermione. “We’re looking for Scorpio’s father. Is he here?”

“No, he’s gone away for work,” said Anat. “He comes back sometimes in the evening but is usually gone by morning.”

“Where does he work?”

“I’m not sure.” Anat faltered. “Sorry, he said that you’d come from London.”

“Yes,” said Hermione. “We just arrived.”

Her face lit up. “You ought to stay here!”

Narcissa and Hermione’s eyes met.

“No—”

“Thank you,” interrupted Hermione. “We’d like that very much.”

Narcissa’s lips pressed thin.

“Come up,” said Anat. She invited them in with a wave.

“Um,” said Hermione. “I should get my cat.”

-

The townhouse was tidy, not barren like the Malfoy Manor. Despite its moody exterior, its insides were warm. Yellow light filtered everywhere, marking out the fireplace by the door, before which was a golden grate. It was surrounded by furniture that invited. Music by a composer Hermione didn’t recognize floated from another room.

“A radio,” Narcissa noted.

There was another hall that went off somewhere, and a flight of stairs going up and one going down.

“It may snow tomorrow,” said Anat. She climbed the steps. “It will be cold, but there’s a heater upstairs.” She made a shivering motion, as if she hadn’t been understood, and then stopped. “Oh,” she said. Hermione followed her gaze. She was staring at their bags. “You pack only that much?”

“We’re very light packers,” said Narcissa dryly.

There were three doors on the top floor. “This is Draco’s room,” said Anat, She moved to the next. “In case you need anything, this is my room.” And the next. “And this is for guests.”

“Does he have many?” asked Narcissa.

“Ah, no,” said Anat. “Never, actually.”

The guest room had one bed in the center. Its covers and pillows were embroidered. There was a gaping window, by which sat a long chesterfield, also embroidered. It smelled of rain, and sandalwood.

“I’ll sleep by the window,” Hermione said quickly.

Narcissa seemed to agree. She slung her bag on a chair by the bed.

“I’d like to see Scorpio,” she said to Anat.

“Of course,” she said.

The two of them disappeared down the steps and Hermione was left in the room alone. She looked out into the street. She tried the latch on the window until it budged. With a loud crack, the window opened. A handsome muggle man glanced up. Hermione waved. The muggle man smiled back. The house had no concealment ward.

Interesting, thought Hermione. She moved away from the window.

Out into the hallway, she tried the other doors. Anat’s was locked. She tried Draco’s door. The knob was brass, and it came open.

Draco’s room was tidy in its chaos. On one side, the classic Malfoy staples: A black frame bed with gruesome little carvings and expensive sheets. On the other side, a study. There were charts and maps all over its walls—more maps than anyone had a use for. And they were all of Russia. The desk was stacked with books on muggle subjects. A stack at the foot of his table contained everyone from Du Bois to Beauvoir to Confucius to Nabokov. A string of authors. There was another stack on muggle history, another on various muggle fixations. Draco Malfoy, the pureblood elitist, now interested in Muggle Studies? It was too rich.

Hermione listened towards the door, and pulled open the drawers. Every manner of muggle junk filled them: An old watch that didn’t work. A dismembered pocket knife. Matches scattered everywhere. A deck of cards. A tin for mints.

And then, in the corner of a drawer, was a broken wand.

Hermione lifted it carefully. The break was slight, an oblique fracture. It had been mended once, then retired anyway. The core, visible still in spite of the mend work, was bone. Hermione rubbed away a coat of dust. Splinters of wood came off into her hand.

“Hermione,” called Narcissa.

Hermione shut Draco’s door and found herself face-to-face with Narcissa.

“There’s no reason to look guilty,” she said.

Hermione scowled. “I don’t look guilty.”

Narcissa smiled blandly and pushed past her, peering into Draco’s room. “Would you like to go to a museum?” she asked.

“What?”

Narcissa shifted awkwardly. “Scorpio says he would like to see a... ‘cosmonaut’.”

“Scorpio’s warmed up to you?” asked Hermione.

“Of course he has. I’m his—” she bit on the word, “—grandmother.”

“And what about Draco?”

“What about Draco?”

“Don’t you want to find him?”

“He’ll come around, you heard the muggle woman.”

“I heard Anat,” Hermione provided. “And I’m not sure Draco’s coming.”

“He wouldn’t leave Scorpio.”

“There’s not a single magical ward on this house, Narcissa,” said Hermione. “He hired a muggle woman to watch Scorpio.”

Narcissa’s nostrils flared. “And?”

“Maybe he was trying to lead a normal life,” said Hermione solemnly. “But this is... a very strange amount of maps for that. And look,” she pointed at a pile of books on the desk and started reading them off. “This is a book on Cherskiy. This is on navigation magic. Survivalist charms, and this is on muggle research in northern Siberia.”

Narcissa sat down.

“I don’t think he’s coming back soon,” said Hermione. “If he’s reading about Cherskiy, he must have gone to establish a link for the portkey. It could have taken him months to get north.”

“And so he’d put the portkey here, where it would be easily accessible.”

“I’d expect so, yes,” said Hermione. “I think he needs our help.”

“What he’s looking for,” said Narcissa, “must be impossible to find.”

“A horcrux. It could be anything.”

“Why else would he go through the trouble of establishing a portkey?”

“Exactly.”

They didn’t go to the Museum of Cosmonautics.

Scorpio protested, “But I wanted to see Strelka!”

“What is Strelka?” asked Narcissa over coffee and soup.

“A preserved space dog,” said Anat.

Narcissa looked horrified. “He wants to see a taxidermic dog?”

“Yes, well, he likes animals.”

“I like dogs!” Scorpio yelled.

“Sorry,” Anat grinned. “Not just any animal.”

He pulled on her hair.

“That’s not nice,” said Anat, gently grasping his wrists. “Don’t do that. It hurts.”

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, and scampered off.

“You’re very good with him.” Narcissa sipped at her coffee. “This is very good,” she said, although Hermione could tell she was just trying to make conversation.

“Thank you,” said Anat.

“How do you know Draco?” asked Hermione.

“I study history at the university here,” said Anat. “And he, ah, showed up one day.”

“In your class?”

“Yes.”

“Did you say he goes on trips often?”

“Yes. Longest one I remember was almost a month. I couldn’t reach him.”

“Couldn’t reach him...?” asked Narcissa.

“She means by phone,” explained Hermione.

“I see.”

“Anyway, I should probably get him to take a nap,” said Anat. “I’ll just be upstairs.”

“Thank you for lunch,” said Hermione.

She put her dishes in the sink once Anat had gone. “I need to clear my head. I’m going for a walk.” She grabbed her coat and pulled it on. “I’ll be back shortly.” She left Narcissa in the kitchen.

Shortly, as it happened, was shorter than expected. Hermione pulled on her boots and tied her laces. Feeling her wand pressed against her stomach through her coat, she gripped it tightly. It made her feel just that much safer. She turned the knob on the front door. Through the window, the storm had passed. It was sunny, and pleasant, and everyone had put away their umbrellas. Distantly, Hermione could hear the sound of tires rolling on wet asphalt.

The door opened.

A blast of cold wind burned Hermione’s eyes. It shot up her nose and burned her insides, too. Out in the street—except there was no street any longer—was a darkness that howled. Where there should have been buildings, skyscrapers, onion-shaped domes, other houses, there was a roaring nothingness instead: A flat plane of hissing wind and ice stretched forth from the doorstep. In the distance, there was no skyline, but a long, blue haze.

Hermione slammed the door and returned to the kitchen.

“Never mind,” said Hermione. She dropped into the chair next to Narcissa.

Narcissa’s mouth opened. “Is that—?” She pulled snow out of Hermione’s hair.

“Snow? Yes.”

Confusion blotted her features. “How can that be?” She looked out the kitchen window, out into the street where the sun was peeking down on puddles of rain.

“Um,” said Hermione. “I found the portkey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all mistakes are mine.
> 
> As usual, general feedback and criticisms are loved and appreciated!


	6. Into the White

Narcissa did not slam the door as Hermione had. She stared into the abyss that lay between the mottled sky and the ice earth. There was no light but the light that came from the warm, sunny flat in Moskva. It cast a long yellow shadow through the dark. The wind hissed across the threshold and blew frost across the floor, and finally Hermione shut the door.

“So the portkey is the door,” said Narcissa.

“Yes,” said Hermione.

Snow had patterned the apples of Narcissa’s cheeks, and it was melting now, into droplets. Hermione admired them.

“Do you have any idea how he might have learned this kind of magic?” asked Narcissa. The expression that was on her face was a lost one, halfway between wonder and, Hermione thought, something like betrayal.

She shook her head no. There was very little she knew about Draco, nowadays. Everyone had drifted apart.

“We’ll have to wait until it’s morning,” said Hermione.

“How will you know?” asked Narcissa.

Hermione shrugged. “I’ll check.” She thought to the charts in Draco’s room. There was an odd focus on Cherskiy, which was northernmost if she could remember correctly. “I think the portkey may bring us close to Arctic.”

Narcissa pressed a hand into the side of her face, and covered her eyes. She was leaning against the threshold now. “What if we don’t find him,” said Narcissa, so quietly it could have been only for herself.

Hermione didn’t know what to say. Against her better sense, she reached out and patted Narcissa’s shoulder. It felt tense under her hand, and regal somehow. It was both muscular and bony at once, through the cloth. Hermione grasped lightly, and let go.

Narcissa’s hand dropped at her side.

“Sorry,” Hermione said. “Um,” she fumbled, “I’ll... I’ll go up to his room and have another look.”

They stared at one another before Hermione turned and left.

Hermione had never pictured Draco Malfoy as a particularly dedicated reader. He’d been a skilled duelist and excelled in potions from what she remembered, and repaired a few magical artifacts—it was true. But clearly, she’d pictured wrong. After all, Draco had gotten into N.E.W.T.s and made prefect. It couldn’t have all been his father’s doing. So Hermione spent the next several hours perusing Draco’s notes, scribbled in the margins of every book.

It was the Cherskiy book on Draco’s desk she opened first, which she discovered was one book of many books on the subject and the areas surrounding it. Most of them were in Russian. In one, there were drawings of many trees, strange trees that were small and delicate and beautiful. Draco had skipped over them entirely, except to mimic their strange shapes.

“Philarion,” murmured Hermione. She brushed her wand across the page.

Pleistocene, it read.

She bothered herself next with the books on Muggle Studies. The margins of these books were occupied with an internal debate on muggle stupidity and ingenuity, and a newfound obsession in skiing. Hermione returned to the books on Cherskiy and the Pleistocene Epoch.

She became so absorbed that she did not notice Hermione enter until a hand rested itself in the space directly beneath the nape of her neck. Hermione jerked up in surprise.

A pair of cold blue eyes met hers, equally surprised.

“Hello,” they said.

“Hello,” said Hermione.

Narcissa pointed at the charts beneath Hermione’s fingers, which were clutching The Russian Subarctic as if someone would tear her from it. “Are those daylight charts?” asked Narcissa with interest.

Hermione nodded.

There was a chart for every time zone, marked on the y-axis by the times and the hours, and on the x-axis notched with the months.

“It’s... mid-November,” said Hermione, uncertainly. She’d forgotten the date. She dragged her finger across the x-axis, “so we have a little under four hours of daylight, beginning at 10am.”

Narcissa reached over Hermione, and flipped through the book. Her hair brushed Hermione’s nose. It smelled like soap, and fir. “Is there anything on time zones?”

Hermione stopped her, lifting her hand. “Um. Right here. They run on Magadan Time, but we’re on Moscow Standard Time. There’s an eight hour time difference.”

“So we’d leave at two.” Narcissa smiled mournfully. “Two in the morning.”

“Yes.”

She looked thoughtful. “Come downstairs,” she said. Her coat followed her, rippling like a wake. Hermione brushed a long pale strand from her slacks, and followed.

In the sitting room, Narcissa was holding a coat of Hermione’s, one she’d worn through since her time at Hogwarts.

“That was—” and Hermione tried not to sound accusatory, “that was in my bag.”

“I enchanted it,” said Narcissa. “Try it on.” She held it out.

Hermione pulled it on. Gasped. A sudden warmth flooded through Hermione’s chest and passed into the tips of her fingers and her toes. Her belly hummed, as if filled with coacoa.

“Thank you,” she breathed out.

“Beige,” said Narcissa. “I never liked it. It’s a tasteless color.”

Hermione pinched her lips.

“It looks nice on you.”

“Thanks,” said Hermione sourly.

“It does.”

“I know.”

Narcissa bit her lip. “Are you hungry? Anat went out while you were reading.”

“Where’s Scorpio?”

“Watching the....” Narcissa struggled to find the word. “The box thing.”

Hermione took off her coat. “What box thing?”

“The one with the flashing lights and the ridiculous characters with high pitched voices. The box thing.”

“Oh,” said Hermione, trying not to look too amused. “A telly.”

“A telly.”

“Why’d she go?”

Narcissa sighed, “because I asked her to. Are you hungry or not? It’s past six and dark.”

“Okay, okay.” Hermione glanced out the window. It was cold again, and besides the warm yellow lighting that dotted the residential street and flooded in from the street over, it was beginning to look a lot like the portkey on the other side. She put on her coat.

Narcissa went to call Scorpio.

They passed a grocery store before Narcissa and Hermione realized that neither of them wanted to cook. Scorpio clutched Narcissa’s hand. The water from the earlier rain had frozen solid, and the little boy shrieked with joy each time he skid on the sidewalk, weighing down on Narcissa’s shoulder. She would grimace, and then smile again each time he beamed at her.

Hermione didn’t understand it.

They stopped at a cafe. She shed her coat at once, sweat plastering the kinks of her hair to her temple. A couple sitting by the doorway observed them, looking rudely disturbed by the frigid gust that had followed them. They turned away as Narcissa approached behind her.

“Where do you want to sit?”

Narcissa turned her chin towards a table by the window. When they had seated themselves, a waiter with tattooed arms approached them. His eyes were narrowed but twinkled at Hermione. He wore a thick beard and mustache, and though she could not make out his lips, she knew from the curve of his eyes that he was smiling.

Hermione smiled back. Narcissa said nothing.

The waiter said something to them that they did not understand.

“Um, sorry,” Hermione said awkwardly.

He nodded quickly in understanding and handed her a menu, with pictures. Scorpio pointed at the options that had no pictures and read them aloud.

“You can read this?” asked Narcissa.

Scorpio grinned. Narcissa blew air through her nose, but in a way that Hermione interpreted as being impressed. Scorpio went on, “and this soup is very spicy....”

Everyone asked for soup. Scorpio ate like a wolf, while Narcissa spooned hers slowly. Hermione looked across the table as they finished. Narcissa had taken off her coat. Her white neck glistened slightly, and Hermione was reminded of the warmth seeping into her fingers, and her belly.

“Good?” she asked.

Narcissa’s eyes were glazed over. “Good,” she said.

Scorpio pretended to be a dinosaur.

They went home warm.

Anat had arrived only minutes before them, Hermione realized, for when she opened the door she was tearing off her boots.

“Hello,” said Hermione.

“Hi,” said Anat. She was short. “How was dinner?”

“Good!” trilled Scorpio. He rushed at Anat, nearly throwing her off as she took off her other boot. For balance, she pressed against the wall.

“Hello!” she said. The moody look on her face had disappeared. She looked to Narcissa. “It’s close to his bedtime,” she said, “I can put him to sleep if you like.”

To Hermione’s surprise, Narcissa smiled blandly and said, “Thank you.” Then: “If it’s no trouble.”

Hermione coughed.

Anat and Narcissa stared at her.

“Oh no,” said Anat.

“Are you sick?” they asked at once.

Hermione was trying her hardest not to grin. “Not at all.” She started towards the stairs. “I’m a bit tired so I think I’ll go upstairs.”

“It’s so early!” said Anat. “I was going to make tea.”

“I’m alright, thank you.”

“And you?” Anat looked meaningfully at Narcissa.

“That sounds lovely.”

Hermione hurried upstairs and into, not their room, but Draco’s. She stared at the surroundings. She had left it changed, with the books in different pages, some open and some closed. The idea tomorrow of walking through the portkey did not sit well with her. The warmth of her stomach had dissipated, and as she stared at the surroundings she felt a strong urge to curse Draco Malfoy and his solitary nature. A horcrux or something worse was sitting beyond the portkey, Hermione knew, somewhere in the snow. And some part of Hermione dreaded that Draco might have found it. Maybe Narcissa had been thinking this too. She didn’t imagine they would be talking about it.

She sifted through the various papers and books that occupied the upper shelf of his desk. There was nothing of interest. She stared at the wall of maps for awhile longer, and then stripped the maps of the Cherskiy area from the wall. These maps she folded, and tucked into her pocket. There was nothing else the room could offer her, she thought, until she saw a little shelf against the wall. She’d missed it before, because it was hidden beneath the desk, where Hermione had been tucking her feet.

In the arms of the shelf was a set of two compasses. Hermione picked one, the simplest one, contained by a humble tin cylinder. Its needle spun slightly before settling on the north. Hermione pocketed it, and left the room. She closed the door behind her.

From the hallway, she could hear Anat speaking quietly to Scorpio. In the next room, Narcissa was shuffling through her bag. Hermione followed the sound, and entered the guest bedroom.

The smell of sandalwood and rain entered her nose. Only it wasn’t raining beyond the window—it was snowing. And the room was cold. The chesterfield was decidedly a lot less inviting.

Narcissa and Hermione’s eyes met, but they did not say hello. Narcissa went back to her bag, pulling out clothes. So Hermione did the same. She hadn’t brought much in the way of clothes, though now she was regretting it. Her clothing didn’t reek, exactly, but she didn’t smell nice. She dug into her bag. There were a few apples left from the road.

“When I talked to Anat, why did you smile?” asked Narcissa.

Hermione dug further into her bag. “I thought you were being nice.”

“Nice,” said Narcissa.

“You were being civil,” said Hermione. She pulled out a bottle of shea butter and shampoo, and clothes. Now she turned and looked Narcissa, directly in the face. “You were being civil with a muggle.”

“I see.” Narcissa’s lips were thin, and because it was cold and dark, were turning purplish.

Hermione searched her eyes, but they were hard, and when she stared too long Narcissa cast her eyes down.

“I was going to shower,” said Hermione. Her limbs ached for it. “But you look cold. Maybe you should go first.”

Narcissa shook her head. “I’ll have one in the morning.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’m tired.”

Hermione sighed aloud as the shower hit her back, washing away spuds of soap and dirt. She combed through her hair with steady fingers, sifting the strands apart the best she could. Her jaw slackened, and she stood in the shower long after she was clean. The towels were soft on her body. She wrapped one around her head until she remembered it’d been cut short and there was no point. She pulled on her clothes, and stepped out to the sinks and Narcissa in the bedroom. A trail of steam followed her.

Another version of herself greeted her at the sink. Her hair was puffy against her scalp, and smelled of coconuts. Her eyes were a bleary hazel, and her black skin was bright under the yellow sink light. She saw Narcissa in the mirror, sitting on the bed. She was dressed in something green that hung off her shoulders. And she was looking. Looking at Hermione.

Hermione smiled to herself, though she didn’t know why. She wasn’t entirely comfortable being watched. She spat toothpaste into the sink, ignoring the feeling, and prepared herself mentally for the chesterfield.

Except she didn’t have to. Narcissa sat on the bed, barefoot, and as Hermione approached the chesterfield, Narcissa stopped her.

“Let’s sleep together,” she said.

Hermione opened her mouth.

“I mean,” Narcissa clarified, “the bed is big.” Her eyes went to the chesterfield. “And it’s going to be cold over there.”

“Oh. No, it’s okay, I—”

“It’s not strange,” interrupted Narcissa.

Hermione blinked. “I didn’t say that it was, I just think you’d be more comfortable—”

“It would make me feel better if we slept together,” said Narcissa. She looked so tired.

“Oh,” said Hermione. “Okay.”

Hermione padded towards the side closest to her. She peeled back the sheets, and slid into them. Narcissa moved to turn out the lights, and the room was swallowed. Hermione turned towards the window. There was no moon tonight, but the street below glowed softly. At her back, the bed shifted as Narcissa climbed in beside her.

Hermione stared at the alarm on the bedside table. Its numbers were red. In four hours, she would be waking up again. She shut her eyes, and willed herself to sleep, keenly aware of Narcissa’s breath, which drew back and forth in the space between them, like a modest tide.

-

Hermione woke up, freezing. Her ears, neck, and shoulders were naked to the air, and her face was numb. But it was not the cold that had woken her.

Somewhere, Narcissa murmured incoherently.

Hermione murmured back. A question. Everything was a blur. Her lungs were tight, and she breathed in. The air burned her insides.

“I’m cold,” said Narcissa. Her voice was clearer now, and it bathed Hermione’s neck. She was suddenly very awake.

She turned towards Narcissa. Narcissa’s hair was no longer in a knot at the back of her head. It spilled across her cheeks and against her jaw, down into her breast. She glowed faintly. Her lip was purple.

Hermione lifted her head, slowly, carefully (Narcissa protested anyway) and tucked her own arm beneath Narcissa’s neck. They were close now, their shoulders folded into one another. Hermione drew the sheets up to their ears.

Narcissa’s breaths were hot as they touched her face and passed into her throat. She inhaled them, uncertainly. They filled her, like a warm drink. Soon, Hermione was still again.

-

There was a brush of fingers on her face, and someone talking to her. Hermione peeled the death from her eyes, and opened them. Exhaustion weighed beneath them, she could feel it—clinging.

“Finally,” said Narcissa. “She’s lucid.”

Narcissa stood above the bed. Behind her, the window was still glowing, and the sky was still dark, but Narcissa was changed. Her hair was impeccable, done in a French twist that was too lovely for where they were going. Her coat was heavy and enchanted, and her boots shockingly utilitarian.

Hermione felt for her left arm. It was bloodless, and tingled. “Is it time to go?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Narcissa.

Hermione felt like a master ventriloquist as she pulled on her clothing and plodded down the steps.

Narcissa was waiting by the door. Her face was like stone and she generally looked like a statue. The light coming through the living room window was the grey-red midnight variety, and threw Hermione off.

“Alright?” asked Hermione.

“As well as can be expected.”

“You don’t have to go, you know.”

“Don’t play with me,” said Narcissa.

“I mean it.” Hermione felt like she was still dreaming. “Scorpio is here, and—and if something goes wrong he won’t have any—”

“I am not,” said Narcissa, pulling on a glove, “going to stay here.” She sounded pained as she pulled on the other. “Nothing is going to go wrong,” she said.

Hermione’s breath passed before her eyes.

“We’re going,” said Narcissa forcefully.

“Okay,” said Hermione. She pulled open the door.

Cold, orange sunlight spilled into the Moskva darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Thank you for reading! It’s been awhile. Unfortunately, my new school has eaten up much of my free time. The good news is, I now have a VPN and my own server, so content on my Tumblr will be picking up again.
> 
> As always, both positive and negative feedback is appreciated!


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